As snow covered the peaceful Grand Rapids, Michigan, suburbs in early 1992, Elizabeth Montgomery quietly made her way to Dick York’s little home. There was only a chilly breeze and a woman on a discreet mission; there were no photographers or reporters waiting. Since they brought Samantha and Darrin Stephens to life on Bewitched with humor and affection that won over millions of fans, she hadn’t seen York in years. But when she learned of his deteriorating health, she felt a gut instinct that it was time.
York lay thin and feeble within a little bedroom that smelled of used paperbacks and peppermint oil, a shadow of the man who previously brought charm and enthusiasm to a set. Montgomery sat down next to him, quietly and unassumingly. Neither of them said anything for several long minutes. There was a connection between them that didn’t require words as she softly grabbed his hand in hers. It was the kind of quiet, replete with significance and memories, that only longtime friends or former co-stars could share.
Montgomery made no mention of Bewitched’s legacy or fame. She didn’t discuss the show’s performance following his departure, ratings, or regrets. Rather, she started to reflect, whispering about their best moments from those early seasons—before York had to leave due to chronic discomfort, before he was replaced, before the enchantment dwindled behind the scenes. York’s eyes brightened when she brought up a scenario from season one in which Darrin uses magic to cut wood and ends up burning the rug in the living room. He chuckled, really, appreciatively, although his voice was hardly audible.
He had left Bewitched abruptly in 1969, and they had not collaborated for decades. There was no formal farewell or farewell party. Years of injuries and overwork had exacerbated his spinal condition, making it hard for him to continue. He was on set one week, and then he left. That, not keeping in touch, allowing time and space to go between them, had always been a source of silent remorse for Montgomery. So she apologized throughout that visit. Not because of anything she had done, but because she had allowed their relationship to deteriorate.
York responded, “We both had to keep going,” and he gripped her hand. That was all, in a single sentence. For that one winter afternoon, they were just Elizabeth and Dick again—two people who had once shared a screen, a rhythm, and a tiny bit of magic—but life had drawn them apart, as it always does.
An hour later, she got up to go. Despite his fatigue, York was clearly moved. “You will always be my Darrin,” she whispered as she gave him a gentle forehead kiss. They were both unaware that it would be their final encounter. Montgomery remained silent about her visit until York’s death later that year. Neither a news statement nor a tribute included it. She simply had to do it, both for herself and for him.
The story wasn’t revealed until many later, during a private discussion with a reliable buddy. The pal revealed, “She told me he was more than a co-star.” “He was a part of something magical we created together,” she said. More was said in that one sentence than in any interview. It showed a respect and affection that had endured beyond time, studios, and screenplays.
That visit was never a PR stunt for Elizabeth Montgomery. She made no reference to it in her memoirs or retrospectives. It was still a private moment, a silent gesture of goodwill and reconciliation. She had tears in her eyes and a heavy heart when she left his house that winter day. She was aware that the real enchantment of Bewitched had always existed outside of the stage lights, in the quiet elegance of being there when it really counted, in the whispered apologies, and in the laughs exchanged between takes.